Morning Tea
by drinktea
Summary: It was cruel, really, the way she'd move so gracefully without effort, gliding soundlessly over their floors, not denying his presence. She looked... not quite tired. Not quite sad? Not quite gray? One of those. AU. ReTi.


_Disclaimer: Reno and Tifa do not belong to me. I am also not making any profit from this story (not that I could anyway, haha)._

Sakura-Angel: Just thought I'd write something more domestic. Tifa and Reno if they led "normal" lives and all that. I didn't think it'd become anything serious, but it did. Surprisingly dramatic, even. As always, comments and critiques are welcomed.

**Morning Tea**

He could always tell how she felt by where she sat.

On the mornings she hummed and prepared breakfast tea, maybe dancing around a little to the radio while her long ponytail swished across her back, she was happy. Her path across the kitchen was graceful, fluid, worn in. She'd sit in the chair across from him at the table where he always waited, body still moving to the boppy beat, and contentedly smile-pause-sip her tea.

The extremely happy morning was when she'd wake up early - so early it was almost obscene - and go outside. It didn't matter the season, rain or shine, she was skipping around the backyard with the morning things - larks flitting about, that rare white flower that only bloomed in the winter, dew spraying at her heels. She'd run into the kitchen, starving, and crash into his chair, effectively jostling him enough so he'd stop what he was doing. He'd dumbly allow her to pluck his fork from between his fingers and pop whatever was speared on the prongs into her mouth. He'd tell her to get her own breakfast and she'd object over and over until he'd finally bump her hip with his own, forcing her to relent and zip behind the counter for her own eggs (which he'd thoughtfully made more of, he never failed to point out). She always stuck her tongue out at him. He always reached up to pretend to pull it.

An Angry Morning was easily forseen, termors visible in her the night before. Slamming doors, heavy stomps and flush-faced anger were absent, non-existent with her. She'd get up noiselessly and go through her morning rituals without so much as a peep. And she'd get a single white plate - it was always white -, couple it with a teacup and sit outside on the balcony, sipping away with the same expression on her face. For some reason he always read sadness in her features, but it was obvious that she was mad - to him, at least.

This was one of those mornings.

It had actually been this way for five mornings, this being the sixth.

It was cruel, really, the way she'd move so gracefully without effort, gliding soundlessly over their floors, not denying his presence. He _wanted_ her to scream. He _wanted_ her to punch him with her fighter's fists. He _wanted_ her to blithely ignore him, turn her face away when he passed.

She gave him none of that. She looked straight into his eyes when she asked if he'd like some tea. She talked to him without clipping her words. She did not insist he go sleep on the couch. She was floating past him now, with eyes halfway between expressionless and sad, to open the door to the balcony, where she'd sit and sip and take delicate bites of her food, all while he watched but tried not to. 

He couldn't figure it out.

She sipped.

He had done nothing wrong. He'd had five, count 'em _five_ mornings to think about it, and there were no missed birthdays, assorted anniversaries or menial tasks he had forgotten. For once.

There was honestly no reason she had to be mad at him. So... _was_ she mad at him? She looked sad, _so sad_, that maybe she was sad at him.

But it made more sense if she was mad, right? It just seemed like mad behaviour.

He was utterly confused.

He stole a glance at her. She sat cross-legged, teacup lifted to her lips. She was calm, very calm, and very precise with her movements so she moved the least possible amount, staving off any utensil fumbling or teacup-saucer adjusting. He noticed only because these things seemed to be abundant in himself when they should not have been. After all, he'd done nothing wrong. He had nothing to be nervous or self-concious or fumbly about.

So why was he?

She looked... not-quite-tired. Not-quite-sad? Not-quite-gray? One of those.

He was getting the distinct impression that she was trying to tell him something all these mornings, and he was most definitely not catching on.

She was patient though. She was as patient as the earth. She sat with the same look on her face, millions of different expressions all weighed out the same in her features each day. It made him sad and sqeamish that she had probably acquired this patience from living with and loving him.

The door creaked open and she looked at him once before depositing her plate and cup in the sink. "I'm going out. To get flowers for Aerith," she said evenly.

He stopped himself from gulping. "Okay."

She walked soundlessly away. 

'Okay'? _'Okay'?_ Why had he said 'okay'? Was he a moron? He should've stood up and went to her, touched her arm and asked her why she was mad at him. He should've _done something_, rather than just sit and agree to another second of her not ignoring him. It was _stupid_. _He_ was stupid. He hated this. 

"Teef?" He called.

She came down the stairs, steps paced normally. "Yes?" She rounded the corner and stared him straight in the eye, unflinching.

At the locking of their gazes, he froze.

"Get some gardenias," he said, breaking eye contact.

_Coward_.

She looked disappointed, but the look flitted away. (_Was_ she disappointed in him? He couldn't even begin to imagine.) "Of course," she said, and turned around to slip on sandals. She closed the door behind her.

He watched her go.

-------- 

The seventh morning came. He lay in bed, late to rise on purpose. He knew his schedule wouldn't affect hers.

He had to ask her. He had to ask her or tell her or at least _talk_ to her about this. He knew now that he could only do this in the morning. 

He got out of bed, tossed the sheets aside, and strode out of the room and down the stairs and into the kitchen. He passed the teapot sitting on the counter, but then thought better of it and grabbed a cup for himself. He stepped resolutely onto the balcony with a steaming teacup in hand. "Mind if I join you?" he asked her bravely.

"No," she answered, not turning to look at him. She didn't need confirmation, after all.

He sat on the wrought-iron chair next to her, placing his teacup down on the table.

"What brings you here?" she asked, as if the balcony was a world apart from the kitchen table. Maybe it was. 

"I need to talk to you."

"We talk." 

"Ask. _Ask_ you something."

She sipped. "What would that be?" She kept her gaze ahead of her, looking out on the backyard, so perfect green.

He hesitated. "Why... are you so mad at me?"

She turned to look at him, finally. Her eyes were not as warm as they usually were. "I'm not mad at you."

"Sad at me?"

"I'm not... sad at you," she replied, obviously finding the grammar a problem.

"Then why are you acting this way?" he asked again, the intensity of his questions making him lean closer to her.

"If you can't figure it out, Reno, think about it a little more." Sip. 

"What? I've already thought about it, Teef. I've thought about it for six days! Why can't you just tell me what I'm doing wrong?" he pleaded with her without meaning to.

Her thumb rubbed the handle of her teacup, the first purposeless move he'd seen her make. "That's the thing, Reno. You always need me to tell you." She looked ahead still.

"Tifa, babe..." He found one of her hands with both of his and held it up to his face, held it like it was precious because it was. Because _she_ was. "I promise, just tell me. Tell me and I'll fix it, right away, for you." For some reason, he felt near tears like he hadn't in years.

She swallowed nothing. "No. I can't tell you because you can't just fix it, Reno. You can't fix something like this in a blink of an eye."

"Please. Tell me," he near-whispered. He held her hand still. "I'm losing you, Teef. I'm losing you and it scares me and I hate it." 

She inhaled sharply at his confession. Still, she was stubborn. "Think."

He sat with her hand in both of his, circling his thumbs over her skin. "I... I..."

And for the first time, it occured to him. She was doing this now _because_ there was nothing small in the way. Something much bigger had been obscured all this time.

His mouth moved slowly, testing not only the words but the idea. "I... don't do enough."

Her gaze fell. It meant that he was right.

"I... I'm thoughtless. I don't appproach you. I don't do something for you for the sake of doing it." His eyes were hollow with the discovery. He couldn't look at her. "I'm... I'm bad at this."

There was a long pause.

A brief contraction around his fingers, firm but uncommanding.

He looked up at her from his deflated position. "Why... are you still..."

She gave him a fragile smile, and rested her other hand on his cheek. "Why do you think?" She was so close that she became blurry.

He was pained in a way he had never been before. He was grateful and ashamed. He was lucky. He was so lucky to have her, because now, even though he had thought it a million times before, told her it a million times before, he knew now for certain that he did not deserve her.

So he pulled her in close and held on tight, and told himself that even though it would be slow-going, he would never, ever give her a reason to sit by herself again.


End file.
